A Writing Afternoon

God, Martin! Must you read over my shoulder all the time? Can’t you find SOMETHING to do??

Darling, it’s not exactly like I can go putter in the garden, or work on the car. I’m ectoplasm, woman! Best I can do is ooze about the engine, maybe lubricating it a bit if I concentrate. That is, if I’m even able to go to the garage.

There are some drawbacks to having you around dead. Mind you, the drawbacks when you were alive were much harder to take. Pretty much. Well…yes, much harder to take.

Nice. Thank you, Darling. I love you, too.

Oh Martin, cut the drama. You were never good at the pouty lip thing. Ever. I always saw through it. If we’d had children, I was in danger of having them sport that phony put-on as well. You were SUCH a baby, Martin. I couldn’t stand that about you.

Well Harriet, now that I’m mist, don’t hold back. Do tell me exactly how you feel.

Anyway Martin, do try to keep to your ceiling area, please. I’m trying to write and I never could do that with you hovering.

Forgive me if I drift, Darling. Mists do that, you know.

Blah Blah Blah. So you’re dead. We’re both adjusting. Just please do rattle your chains elsewhere. I can’t get any work done, chattering with you. Honestly!

Rattle chains elsewhere? Woman., if you were any more thick I’d worry for you. Obviously I’m stuck here with you. Believe me, if I could go “rattle chains elsewhere”, I’d jump to it in a heart beat. Provided I had a heartbeat….

Yes, yes….stop muttering. What’s a seven letter word for complacence?

Harriet, I thought you said you were working.

Shhhhh… I’m busy.

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